


The Left Hand of The Keeper

by Nebulad



Series: To Live Without Fear [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arm trauma, F/M, Fluff, Healing, Post-Trespasser, post-Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7232446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many things were difficult with only one hand left, but trying to force her hair back had been difficult with two. Abelas was gone— off to scout a bit and hunt a bit, restless in the downpour that had driven them inside for the night— and so then were her spare hands. She’d barely come out of the physiotherapy required to heal her arm and regain proper function of it  before being forced to move, and was… frustrated with herself. There was still so much she couldn’t maneuver without help, as if she hadn’t spent a whole lifetime using her damn arms.</p><p>She shook her head a little, trying to… ignore that thought. She would never have said it to anyone else, so she tried to avoid berating herself in the same way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Left Hand of The Keeper

The fire was lapping at the air and casting flickering blue shadows on the walls around Saevin, but she was simply glad they’d finally managed to get the meagre thing lit. She had no talent with fire and Abelas had too much— between the two of them, trying to get a manageable campfire going was a process, but they’d eventually accomplished it. It was doing remarkably little to dry her, although she figured nothing short of literal _days_ would get the downpour out of her hair. She’d long since changed into her spare set of clothes— the last she had for this journey unless they found a river— and was occupying her time trying to put her hair in a ponytail or something to keep it from dripping on her shirt.

Many things were difficult with only one hand left, but trying to force her hair back had been difficult with two. Abelas was gone— off to scout a bit and hunt a bit, restless in the downpour that had driven them inside for the night— and so then were her spare hands. She’d barely come out of the physiotherapy required to heal her arm and regain proper function of it before being forced to move, and was… frustrated with herself. There was still so much she couldn’t maneuver without help, as if she hadn’t spent a whole lifetime using her damn arms.

She shook her head a little, trying to… ignore that thought. She would never have said it to anyone else, so she tried to avoid berating herself in the same way. It would worry Abelas, who she teasingly called her Left Hand. She’d only just convinced him that he didn’t need to constantly be at her beck and call, but they were travelling alone which in addition to being risky meant he was the only one available to her if she needed help. It’d been necessary though— they didn’t know where Solas was or if he was even trying to find her, but they did know where the _shem_ were (everywhere) and why they wanted her (to blame, always to blame).

Orlais had been too close to tracking her down. There was a warrant or _something_ out on her— she wasn’t sure if they wanted to arrest her or beg her to save them, but either way she was done being their scapegoat— and they were sniffing around the clan’s trail. Rather than move everyone, she’d had them stay put and forged a new trail for the scouts to follow. They had, all the way to the Thousand Pillars before it became too dangerous for them to proceed.

Slowly but surely, on word from Shavra the _hahren,_ Saevin and Abelas were circling back to move the clan perilously closer to the Silent Plains. It would put them at risk of a darkspawn attack they didn’t have to worry about when they stayed near Perendale, but Orlais had a vendetta against her still from the Inquisition. She didn’t blame Briala for being unable to calm the nobles— it was more important that she kept her position as Marquise than for her to spend needless energy trying to shield Saevin.

She frowned, tilting her head back to try and force gravity to do it’s bloody job. Human politics gave her a fucking headache, and she’d much rather be dealing with what was actually important. Her priority was the elves right now— they needed a new world before Solas’ alternative actually became attractive. Not that they would ever be party to it’s full nature, no— Solas was cautious and good at not-lying to the point where everything he said sounded… good. Everything he’d said about the Fade had sounded good to the point where Saevin still wasn’t sure that she would object to rejoining the two worlds once again.

“Keeper.” Saevin’s head jerked forward and she felt her mana crawl into her bones— _mythal’enaste_ she really had to work on her poor fear reactions— but she turned quickly to see Abelas standing starkly against the entrance to the cave. She hadn’t heard him enter which wasn’t really surprising, but either way he’d returned and was soaked to the bone. Water droplets slid off of his armour as he shed it, placing it neatly near the fire to dry. His grey braid was thrown over his shoulder, much drier for the cloak he’d taken with him— a precaution Saevin obviously hadn’t thought of. She remembered her country as hot with very little rain, but obviously they’d found the exception.

“Sentinel,” she returned as he straddled the log beside her, gently guiding her to face the opposite direction. After a moment she realized that he was braiding her hair. “You’re a peach,” she sighed, relaxing her shoulders.

“Are you cold?” he asked, and she could just envision his grim half-smile— _cheer_ wasn’t something she properly associated with a man named _sorrow,_ but she did know him to be much more lighthearted than met the eye. He wasn’t shy about it, but he simply had the sort of face that was made for a curious sort of intensity.

“No, just damp. Did you find anything out in the rain?” There was still a steady downpour that she could hear from the mouth of the cave, which meant that they wouldn’t risk any nighttime wandering. She was stuck like a _durgen’len_ until morning.

“Our trail’s been dissolved, but little else,” he reported. “The harts are fine where they are and the storm will be strong for a while yet.” He finished with her hair (no small feat considering the mess the storm had made of it) and she turned to face him. Call it her bias, but she was rather fond of his face. His green _vallaslin_ stretched across his skull, winding under the shaved braid he kept his stark grey hair in and framing his yellow eyes. He had severe cheekbones but a soft face, and was looking at her in very (very) faint amusement. “You are staring,” he reminded her.

“I’m aware.” She had been, mostly. “Any sign of Orlais?”

“None, though that means very little. I will admit that I am not adept at tracking clowns.” He stiffened a little defensively and she snorted. She doubted that they would send bards after them, but Abelas’ poor reaction to harlequins never got old. Trying to explain the concept to him had been a process, especially since Saevin didn’t understand why they were dressed like that either. It had to be the most audacious outfit for a spy she’d ever seen— though perhaps in Orlais that was necessary. Certainly more than one had escaped her notice at the Divine’s Council.

Quiet fell between them comfortably and rain continued to drum against the world outside. There were moments like this where she thought… perhaps she should do something. There was something between them— budding, brushing, and just _barely—_ but its sole realm seemed to be in lingering fingertips and grazing mouths. It frustrated her clan, and she knew it was because the Dalish were intimate people; whatever was between them was so gossamer that few could trust that it was even there. Proper Dalish declarations dealt in the tangible: pelts and flowers and roughened stone jewellery and precisely built weapons.

For all her experience with… _older_ men, she had no real idea of how to approach them. Abelas too was a special sort where he was just learning the words for Halamshiral and deep mushroom and Alienage. The world was hurtling past him faster every day and she didn’t want to contribute to the chaos and confusion of having risen to a world under attack, barely able to escape it with a handful of comrades left alive.

She leaned against his shoulder— simple and keeping with their pattern. He shifted her closer by the hip so he could put his arm around her back and have her lean with her torso instead of her left arm. Soon she would conjure up a replica to replace what the Mark and Solas had taken.

It wouldn’t be perfect, as far as Dorian’s research could tell. It would imitate a hand and maybe serve to help her cope with the loss of her physical one, but the catch was that _this_ would not be physical. Holding real objects would be impossible— perhaps something very light, he stipulated, but nothing like a stave or a book— and casting through it would be downright dangerous. Channelling mana through mana would cause feedback that, depending on the spell, would be difficult to control at best. Still, the fingers would move on her whim and although it would probably be a reflection of her mana rather than anything that looked like a flesh and bone arm— that meant more than likely purple with lightning and mostly transparent— it would be something. At this point, she simply craved _something_ there.

“You are lingering on your arm again,” Abelas murmured.

“Am not.”

“You are.” He didn’t elaborate on how he’d known— perhaps to save the tells so she couldn’t train herself out of them— but she regretted being so obvious. “I do not pretend to understand the loss of a limb, but I hope it means something to you when I say that in time I believe you will learn to live without it.” She smiled wryly.

“I sincerely hope you weren’t in charge of grief counselling at the Temple,” she teased. He inclined his head.

“I only meant that you are an exceptional person who has gone through something traumatic. You are, of course, allowed your grief, but I believe in time with a will such as yours? You will endure, as bright as you ever were. You have suffered a loss, but _you_ have not lost anything.” _Oh._

Oh that made her feel something… warm and sweet and little embarrassed.

“Besides the arm,” she said, appalled at how watery the joke landed. She couldn’t say something serious— serious was beyond barely brushing and grazing and lingering. Serious cemented the something that they’d been keeping so delicately detached.

“If the choice was between keeping the Mark and dying, and losing the Mark to save your life, I believe one day the world will be sincerely grateful for your will to live. If they are not, then it won’t matter. You will have changed the world to something beyond their crumbling empires and…” He paused and she wasn’t sure if she could take much more of him going on. Flattery usually made her suspicious— especially when it was something she wanted to hear. This was sort of making her… fluttery, when she would have rather been suspicious.

He watched her for a fraction of a second, then leaned down. He kissed her— grazing no, but brushing and lingering with his hands holding hers— and when he pulled away she swore his ears were pink. “If they are not grateful, then I am.”

She was fumbling for something to say in response— some flippant, something stupid, something to bring an enormous pressure off of her chest to let her breathe again. She wished for Dorian’s talent with words, or Sera’s talent for genuity— Dorian spoke prettily even if he didn’t mean something he said, and Sera spoke frankly and _always_ meant it. She… simply couldn’t speak.

She pulled him down by the collar to kiss him again instead. She figured it pretty accurately conveyed what she would have said anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt on my [writing blog !!](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) You can do that, just go to my beautiful writing blog and just message/inbox me with a prompt (tbh inbox is probably better because then I have it sitting there). Then while you wait you can check out the enormous and painstakingly coded playlists I put up (they're just youtube links but damn did it take a long time).
> 
> This was 1/4 prompts for Saevin and Abelas "caught in a storm". Next up will be my Sole Survivor Cherry and Preston Garvey "teaching the other something".


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